The Smile of the Unvanquished

There are people who suffer the consequence of a moment of neglect, the tiniest mistake. Overall, when they win with hardship three moves in a row, their action is felt like an act of provocation, and are send every which way but at least six moves in reverse. I gather a long time ago, that I belong to that category of involuntary sinners. Fair play is an abstract notion, the shadows are larger than ourselves and we're outrun by them. Like the haunting of a Black Hound, following the track of its victims, outsmarting their bid for a safe den. And so we're left with this existential crisis, wondering if that's all to it what we call life, do we have something to show for. Are we condemned to reap only the leftovers, in youth and old age, then wither, til no memory about us lingers forth and everyone else just continues with the order of the day. Move over, sucker, you're done for!.. We yearn for peace and serenity, and it hasn't happen yet and if we tas...

White blossom seated in a wreath of gnarled fingers; a prim lodestone harangued by the glaring moans which in haunting waves run off from parched thirsty mouths. Their predatory desire brewed from acrid pain skews her lofty aspirations and turns her ringing laughter to an idol of shame. To wistful humility devoted, she withers and bloats til all her unshed sweet tears are collected in a cuirass glossed with the colours of her hawkish suitors: burning ardour and the scorn of the immature.

The Far North in the best of seasons tickles the gorse to unfold its cheerful boisterous yellow, rival of the often absent sun and richer than a gold ore, and later in the year, heather raises its shields   of majestic purple to imbue the shivering souls with pride and comfort, to act defiant against the vicissitudes of an inclement course of existence.  In both, floats the waif-like ghoul of melancholy, of woes unspoken from generations into more generations, saddling the heart on the back of roaring white horses, carrying it away beyond the shimmering threshold of the horizon, a destination beyond sun-set concealed from sight by that dense stole of rising sea haar, while the body reduced to dust, coats the skin of the glens and bens.  The physical appearance of the Dark Gaels emulates this ancient demesne on whose craggy rock formations laps the moody sea with its own terse dander; dark hair seething with inflammable emotions, the murmurs of a brooding soul, love-s...